


Baking for Angels

by Guanin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Other, crowley is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: After watching too much The Great Brirish Bake-Off, Crowley decides to make Aziraphale a delicious surprise. That is, if he can manage to bake anything without setting something on fire.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Baking for Angels

At 5:45 in the morning, Crowley declared the kitchen off limits. Not his own kitchen, as it was a woefully ill-supplied wasteland of pristine counters and state of the art cabinets that had never seen so much as the whiff of non-liquid nourishment. Aziraphale’s kitchen, on the other hand, was brimming with silverware, pots, pans, baking sheets, whisks, everything you could possibly need, really. Aziraphale’s love of books was only rivaled by his utter adoration of everything relating to food, so he collected every cooking implement he could get his hands on, swearing that he would use them. He usually did. Eventually. Crowley’s old annoyance with the overflowing kitchen had come to a sudden halt when he hatched his cunning plan. High on a week’s long Great British Bake-Off binge, Crowley was going to bake Aziraphale all those treats that he kept going on about. Well, not all of them. That would take years. But the highlights. Some of the highlights. Alright, a random selection of three. Since it was Christmas, he was focusing on holiday sweets, even trying a hand at some of those technical challenges from the Christmas shows. 

Aziraphale, of course, couldn’t be aware that this cunning plan was taking place, as it would ruin the surprise. 

“What do you mean, I’m banned from my own kitchen?” Aziraphale exclaimed upon finding the note on the kitchen door proclaiming “No Angels Allowed”. 

“I’m conducting an experiment,” Crowley replied, opening the door a sliver, a single eye peering out. 

Aziraphale didn’t look remotely pleased by the cryptic answer. He leaned forward, trying to peer inside. Crowley shut the door until only the thinnest sliver remained open.

“What sort of experiment?”

“Demonic stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t—” He pursed his lips in annoyance. “Then do it in your own kitchen. There’s no need to commandeer mine.”

“On the contrary, darling. There’s every need. You’ll get your kitchen back tonight.”

Aziraphale, who had softened at the new pet name, gaped in affront.

“Tonight?”

Crowley shut the door. 

“Sorry, love.”

Aziraphale’s peeved energy fumed through the door. Crowley ignored it. It was all part of the plan. 

What was not part of the plan was burning the shortbread biscuits. Or having the icing look like weird white-black lumps instead of snowmen. Why was pipping so bloody difficult? No wonder so much of it wound up looking sloppy on the show. Two hours after he’d planned to be done with the blessed biscuits, he finally finished a batch that didn’t want to make him drown himself in embarrassment. Now, on to mince pies.

How the heaven was it possible for the pastry to be both burnt and soggy?! And how could he never get enough pastry strips to do the latticework properly? And why, Satan, why, was weaving latticework so fucking difficult?! What kind of evil, sadistic human had concocted this torture? For no demon would be this inventive. Midst wrestling with two slips of pastry that refused to stick to each other in the way that they damn well better do, Aziraphale knocked on the door. 

“Am I allowed,” he called, “at the very least, to get my afternoon tea?”

Crowley winced. Aziraphale was not happy. Not one bit. Throwing the stubborn pastry on the counter, Crowley rushed to grab the kettle. 

“Give me a sec!” he yelled.

An annoyed “hmph” came through the door. Crowley miracled the water in the kettle to a boil and glared at the pies behind him. This disaster better be worth it. Mere moments later, he slipped Aziraphale a fresh cup of tea, smiling in the most contrite apology before shutting the door in his face. A weary sigh was his reply. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, voice flat. “Whatever you’re doing, it better be spectacular.”

He walked away. Crowley frowned at the pies. They sat there in soggy lumps, thoroughly unappetizing. Screw it. He’d have to start from scratch. 

Two hours, twenty minutes, and a small fire later, the mince pies were finally edible. Crowley took a moment to rest in the midst of the flour and icing covered kitchen, admiring the trays of pies and biscuits covered in cling film, before drawing a deep breath and turning back to the ingredients piled on a back table. Now for the most treacherous bake of all. It would either cover him in glory or live in the depths of the rubbish bin in infamy. The tree. That little tree constructed of green doughnuts that had beaten every contestant in the technical challenge. Crowley had no better luck saying its name, either. His Norse was rusty, not that that would help him with Danish pronunciation. Nor would it help him with this challenge, but Aziraphale was good and annoyed now, so Crowley better show him something magnificent, and biscuits and mince pies weren’t going to cut it. 

“Right,” he muttered, pulling up a recipe on his phone. “Too late to back out now.”

The tree was, as one hundred percent expected, a disaster. The circles were as flat as plates and barely held a hint of green. He threw it in the bin and started over. The second tree was greener but baked so unevenly as to be inedible. Into the bin it went. The third tree looked lumpy and uneven. The fourth tree looked like its top had been chopped off. 

Six hours, forty-seven minutes, and 10 kilos of flour later, a baked good that passed as a tree, properly green and neither burned nor raw, sat on the counter, a little, plastic star on top. Crowley had planned to make the star edible too, but the heaven with it. He was tired, covered in pistachio powder and flour, and if he had to bake for one more second, he was going to set things on fire. It was good enough. 

Cleaning the kitchen with a click of his fingers, he peeked out the door. A faint rustling of book pages drifted from upstairs. Good. Aziraphale didn’t have a dining room, but there was a small table where they had tea while they figured out future living accommodations. As quietly as possible, Crowley dressed the table with a frilly, white cloth made with lace that hadn’t seen human hands in two centuries, and snuck out the sweets, arranging them on presentation trays. He sighed at the wonky curve on a snowman’s smile and the burnt edge on a pie, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Making sure that every speck of food was off him, he straightened up his hair (which was sticking up in every direction from yanking it), adopted an apologetic and cheerful expression, and went upstairs. 

He found Aziraphale leafing through a massive tome that he somehow balanced on his lap, hunched over it with rapt attention. That is, until he heard Crowley approach. He raised his head, piercing Crowley with a sharp, questioning look. 

“You’ve emerged, I see,” he said, closing the book. “Am I allowed back in my kitchen now?”

Crowley tried his best to look properly remorseful. 

“Of course. Sorry I took so long. It will not happen again.”

Aziraphale’s withering look of disapproval lessened a bit. He never could stay angry at Crowley, which Crowley took too much advantage of at times.

“It better not,” Aziraphale said, but his ire was spent now that Crowley had apologized. “May I know what this mysterious experiment of yours is now that it’s finished or not?”

“Of course. I have it all set up downstairs for your perusal. If you’ll just come this way, please?”

Crowley extended his right arm to indicate the stairwell, all bright smiles. Aziraphale frowned as if he were annoyed, but there was amusement in his eyes. As soon as they were downstairs, Crowley snuck up behind him.

“If you’ll indulge me,” Crowley said, “do you mind if I cover your eyes?”

Aziraphale sighed, impatient. 

“Oh, all right. But we better not crash into anything this time.”

The only previous time that Crowley had led Aziraphale blindfolded, they had knocked over a tower of books, resulting in several creased pages that Crowley had to hurriedly fix while enduring a lecture from a panicked Aziraphale. A whole month of apologies was needed to get over that ordeal, and yet Aziraphale still never let him forget it.

“I promise an accident-free experience,” Crowley said, pleading now.

With a quick, “it better be” look over his shoulder, Aziraphale closed his eyes and allowed them to be covered. With extreme care to the point of paranoia, Crowley led Aziraphale to the table where the baked goods sat ready for his inspection. Tweaking the lights so that they cast a warmer glow over the sweets, Crowley lowered his hands and moved swiftly beside Aziraphale to catch his reaction. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, gaping in speechless surprise as he beheld the sweets. He stepped forward, turning from one to the other, hands outstretched but retreating just before touching anything. It was a good surprise, that much Crowley could tell, but he’d be so much more reassured if Aziraphale actually said something.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked, bouncing nervously on his feet

“This…” Aziraphale stopped, collecting himself as he turned to Crowley, frowning. “This is what you’re been doing all day? Why didn’t you tell me? This is marvelous.”

A wide grin split Crowley’s face. 

“So you like it?”

“Like it? My dear, incorrigible demon, come here.”

Stretching out his arms, Aziraphale wrapped him up in the snuggest hug and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. Joy cascaded through Crowley as he hugged him back, the travails and annoyances of the day evaporating in an instant. They had all been worth it. All of it. 

“You don’t think the snowmen are too sloppy?” 

“The snowmen are beautiful. Don’t think for a moment that they’re not.”

That was love talking, not aesthetic criticism. Aziraphale was usually awfully fussy about his food. Which left them with the most supreme challenge of all. The taste. Crowley’s cheer withered as worry sank its grimy claws in him again. 

“They might taste terrible, though,” he admitted. “I didn’t miracle any part of it.”

“I’m sure they will taste wonderful.”

Unlikely. They had seemed alright while he was making them, but there had been no way to be absolutely sure until now. Untangling himself from the hug, Crowley reached for one of the biscuits.

“Maybe I should try one first to make sure they’re up to standard,” he said.

Aziraphale stepped in his way, stern.

“You will do no such thing. If you decide that they’re not good enough, you’ll whisk them away before giving me a chance to sample one, and I will not have that, not after all your hard work.”

Swiftly, he grabbed a biscuit and munched on it. Crowley grimaced despite himself. This was it. The moment of truth. Aziraphale was so picky. There was no way that he would be wowed by them. 

Of course Aziraphale would pick now to look inscrutable. What did that pensive expression mean?! 

“What’s the verdict?” Crowley’s voice came out wobbly. “Edible? Horrible? Should I miracle them away?”

Affronted, Aziraphale grabbed the plate and pressed it to his chest.

“Absolutely not. These are marvelous. Not bad at all. You've done a great job, darling. Thank you so much. This is the sweetest surprise.”

Not half as sweet as the kiss that Aziraphale laid on Crowley’s cheek or the loving hand pressed to his chest in a tender caress as he did so. Bubbles of happiness fluttered in Crowley’s chest. 

Aziraphale deemed the rest of the goods to be as scrumptious as the biscuits. Whether or not it was true became less and less important. The only thing that mattered was the delighted smile in Aziraphale’s face.


End file.
